“Oops.” I step back into the apartment, leaving the door open. “I must’ve forgotten.” I enter the small kitchenette and open the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of beer. I hold it up. “You want one?”
He sighs. “This isn’t playtime, Heston. You’re not in high school anymore, you’re an adult. I’m giving you an opportunity to clear your name and reputation.”
Guess that answers that question.
I pop off the bottle cap, and it clatters on the countertop. “I’ve been wondering about that.”
“About what?”
“Exactly why you’re giving me this ‘opportunity’.” I take a long swig, letting the cool liquid soothe my throat. “I didn’t do much to deserve it. I mean, let’s face it. I barely graduated. I caused you a shit-ton of problems. The stuff with the Adamses, the Devil pranks, skipping classes, the videos...”
He gives me an impatient look. “Yes, I recall.”
“So why let me back on campus?” I know a trap when I see it. Nothing is free, especially not at Preston. After a pause, Collins shuts the door—a clear indication that whatever he has to say, he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. I give him a bland smirk. “Oh, goodie. Here come the strings.”
He casually begins, “As you’re well aware, I banned the Devils and all secret society activity from this campus.”
I snort. “Because of me.”
“Partly,” he replies. “Unfortunately, in the last year it’s become clear that a new reiteration of the club has emerged. They’ve created chaos at two school functions, embarrassing me and the rest of the administration in front of alumni and guests in the process.”
I’m not surprised. I’d heard the rumors about the Devils, and I’ve seen my brother’s tattoo. No one explicitly told me they were back, but they aren’t exactly flying under the radar. Every guy I know who’d be involved—Carlton, Ben, Emory—have all graduated. Whoever remains is a mystery to me. Propping myself against the counter, I say as much. “Not that I would rat out a Devil, but all the obvious suspects are already gone.”
He nods, adjusting the lapels of his blazer. “Which is why I need you to infiltrate the remaining members and report back to me who’s involved.”
I stare at the man, that last piece of the puzzle clicking into place. When it does, I bark a flat laugh. “Infiltrate? I’m twenty-one, Collins. I’m an assistant coach. I’m faculty. You want me to hang out with a bunch of teenage losers while they gloat about marking some girl in the stairway?”
He pulls a face when I bring up the marking. Stodgy fucker’s probably heard the rumors, but never had any confirmation.
“You’re right. All the suspected leaders have graduated. Emory Hall. Reynolds McAllister.” He levels me with a look, pointedly adding, “Your brother.” Personally, I could name at least three other suspects, each of them far more likely than my idiot brother. I don’t, though. “The Devils are obviously lacking something of a leadership role, which means it’s the perfect time to stop this once and for all.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you suggest I do that?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Claim you were sent here to help them regroup. Find out what they’re up to. Report back to me.”
“So you want me to rat out the Devils.” I shake my head. “Come on, Collins. You’ve got to be smarter than this. Narc’ing isn’t my style.”
“You have little choice in the matter.” He looks unconcerned as he walks around the kitchen, dragging a fingertip over a fine film of dust covering a stool. He rubs it between forefinger and thumb, elaborating, “Your stay here at Preston, which includes a generous application of community service hours, is conditional on your complete compliance.”
“My compliance with what?” I narrow my eyes, tracking him. “No one told me anything.”
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. He extends it to me, and after I moment, I reach out to snag it from him. It’s a copy of my probation contract. Midway down is a highlighted section, outlining the Headmaster’s exhaustive authority over my living situation, work conditions, and legal mandates.
I fold up the paper, tossing it onto the counter. “And if I say no?”
“If you say no, then the contact is void—in which case, you’ll have to reappear in front of the judge for a new sentence.” He folds his hands behind his back, watching me. “Be smart, Heston. You’re done with this place. The Devils aren’t anything to you now—you don’t owe them any loyalty. This will be a straightforward way to pay off your debt to society.”
I look at him, this small, unimportant man who’s taking up too much space, and bitterly raise my bottle to him. “You mean this will be a straightforward way to pay off my debt to you.”
He takes his time making his way to the door. It’s the leisurely amble of someone who believes they have the upper hand. “Make the right choice, son.”
I stare at the door once he’s left, downing the rest of my beer in three hard gulps. The bottle shatters when I spike into the trashcan, and if I try really hard, I can ignore the inferno in the pit of my stomach.
“I’m not your fucking son.”
It’s a difficult thing to cop to, the way I feel standing on the pool deck, adjusting my goggles, slipping back into the familiar laser-focus. The cool blue water beckons and following is as easy as breathing. I dive confidently into a lane, and as soon as I slice into the water, it rings too true to deny.
Fuck, I’ve missed this.
My muscles burn with every stroke as I glide through the water, arms and legs reacquainting themselves with the pressure. It’s been a while since I did this. More than a year, at least. I still workout regularly, but mostly at the gym. This is something different—more than just a workout. Full body. All power. For eight years, this is where I dominated hardest.
It’s a good use of the free period before my independent study students arrive. Two nerds who apparently never learned to swim. Fucking ridiculous. Who doesn’t make their kids learn to swim, especially at Preston? It’s not like any of these parents couldn’t afford an instructor. The kids are probably just lazy, weak little shits, which means I’m going to spend five hours a week dealing with a couple of slackers.
I touch the side one last time and take a deep breath, tugging off my goggles. Looking up, my eyes meet a pair of bare legs. The skin is pale, smooth, a smattering of freckles dusting the knees. I zero in on milky thighs—the kind of complexion that I know is perfect for bruising. My eyes travel upward appreciatively, past the hem of cotton shorts, curvy hips, over a set of round, full tits. Her arms are crossed tight across a basic one-piece suit, and her hair, her eyes—
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I snap, throwing my goggles aside. “Not this bullshit again,”
My gaze jumps from Georgia to the kid next to her. Micha Adams is in a pair of trunks and a retro T-shirt with a picture of Michael Jackson on the front. He’s no longer the scrawny little kid I picked on two years ago. His arms are crossed over his chest too, revealing surprisingly toned arms. It doesn’t matter that he’s wearing a headband or dark lipstick. This isn’t the kid Hamilton busted my jaw over.